


1 part Coffee, 2 parts metaphor

by Accal1a



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mind Rape, More angst, Nogitsune Effects, Nogitsune Trauma, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Post-Nogitsune, Rape Recovery, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Sheriff refers to Nogitsune as Rape, Stilinski Family Feels, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4881286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accal1a/pseuds/Accal1a
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't stop checking on Stiles, making sure he's still sleeping, still safe.</p><p>
  <strong>OR</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>The one where Stiles finally talks to someone about the Nogitsune and the Sheriff supportively whacks him round the head for holding it in so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1 part Coffee, 2 parts metaphor

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed; but expertly cheerleaded by I. Love you!

John still checked on Stiles when he was sleeping. He hadn't managed to break himself of the habit yet and he didn't think he'd be getting over it any time soon. 

He would sneak into the hallway and lean against the door jamb to his son's room and just marvel in the sight, even if Stiles was sleeping badly. Occasionally he would untangle the covers and tuck his son in in a way he hadn’t done in years. The contented sigh and the snuggling down into the duvet were well worth the possibility that his son might wake up and get embarrassed; but he never did.

Stiles never slept with his door closed anymore, or John’s night-time excursions may have been noticed by now. As it was, he thought perhaps he needed to break himself of the habit as he was getting very little sleep himself; and it was starting to show. 

They hadn't talked about it, any of it, not really. 

John had been reaching for the handle of the door and about to say goodnight after what he had taken to calling 'the incident'; and Stiles had just said "don't" very quietly, so quietly John almost missed it.

It wasn't until he was downstairs that the distinct lack of words made him realise this wasn't over yet. His usually loquacious son was being taciturn and that was something he really didn't know how to deal with. A can't-sit-still Stiles; a hyper Stiles; or an 80-words a minute Stiles he could deal with (most of the time); but this was a different Stiles and he didn't know what to do with that. 

John was happy to have Stiles back and wouldn't let him out of his sight for long. Stiles, who would normally loathe this sort of hovering didn't say a word, which was another worrying part to this whole mess.

It didn't escape his notice that something being entirely not 'His Stiles' was responsible for this in the first place. He swore to God, if that _thing_ had taken away Stiles for good, he'd hunt it down and spray it with as much bug spray as he could get his hands on. He'd like to see it heal from _that_.

A week went past and John gradually noticed that keeping his bedroom door open wasn't the whole of it. Stiles had taken to sitting in the chair closest to the door in the living room. This was something he'd actively avoided in the past, Stiles liking to be in the thick of it. He had always felt the chair nearest the door was one foot out of it. He had started calling it 'The Derek Chair' at some point in the recent past (and sniggering about that joke), teasing whomever ended up in it at movie night – whether it was the grumpy ex-Alpha or not. 

The only door he ever actually shut was the front one, his hand shaking as he did so. Even then, he didn't lock it. There was an almost panic attack that happened on the first night when John locked it in Stiles’ presence. After that, John had to wait until he'd gone to sleep before doing so, loitering at the bottom of the stairs; and listening to make sure Stiles really was asleep before he even put his hand on the key.

When the upstairs bathroom flooded because Stiles didn't close the curtain when showering, John realised they needed to have a conversation. 

It took some time to actually engineer one though. It was partially due to someone going around and killing supernatural creatures and that made Stiles busy. Quietly, John thought his son had been through enough, needed to take a break; but Stiles would have heard none of it, even if he had managed to say it out loud. If there was one thing that Stiles was, it was fiercely loyal to his friends; and if there was anything he could do to help, he wouldn't shy away from it.

When he thought about all he now knew, John's head spun. It beggared belief all the things he had had to learn about in such a short time, all of the things that were true. 

He'd already decided that if Vampires turned out to be real he was out. He'd take a vacation somewhere isolated, keep his shotgun handy and live in a log cabin until Beacon Hills made sense again.

Except of course he wouldn't. 

He would do what he'd always done. He would protect Stiles, fiercely if necessary; and he would never, ever, leave him.

Of course he'd spectacularly failed at that recently; and if he thought about it for too long at a time he felt sick to his stomach. 

He had totally failed his son and he didn't know where to start at trying to fix it. "I'm sorry" seemed woefully inadequate, especially as it was a parent’s job to look after their children. Granted, he hadn't expected to have been protecting him from mythical creatures; but the premise was the same.

A thing had wormed its way into Stiles' head and tricked him into thinking his son had the same disease as Claudia had had. John had been so blinded by grief he hadn't noticed that that was not what had been happening. So all-consumed with fear, regret and anger that this should be happening again that he wasn't able to think straight. In the dark of the night, when he could admit such things, he also felt sorry for himself for having to go through it one more time; unsure whether he would be strong enough to cope.

The bottle had never looked more tempting than it had then. He left it out, unopened, on the sideboard; as a reminder of how far he'd come, how he didn't need it anymore. If Stiles really had had dementia, he would have weathered that storm as well. It would have been hard, so hard; but he could have done it. For Stiles, he could do anything. Except, apparently, manage to tell the difference between him and someone completely different – he knew that would haunt him until the day he died.

It was only after an accidental shutting of the kitchen door and a subsequent panic attack - because John had accidentally also managed to block Stiles' escape route – that they finally got to talk.

It was awful.

Stiles, with his hands round a coffee cup and his head bowed, sat there for an age, just staring at the table.

John alternated between glancing at his cup, his son and the still-closed door. He didn't want to move, lest he startle his son; but he didn't want to make things worse by keeping it closed either. He was just about to move, had his hands flat on the table to stand, when Stiles spoke.

“How's the station?”

John didn't want to answer, felt like shouting that that wasn't the point of this conversation; but realised as he took a few deep breathes to calm himself that his son was easing into it. Stiles must have known that they couldn't avoid the subject forever, much as they both might like to. So John partook in small talk, waiting for the meat of the conversation.

Being a single parent was hard, especially after a bereavement. He'd had to deal with the ADHD (and the fact the Adderall didn't always work); the panic attacks; and the bad behaviour. It was no surprise Stiles had anxiety, even logically knowing the cause; and the ADHD wasn't his fault of course but it was still difficult.

Some days he wasn't sure he would have got through it without Melissa; and some days he wasn't sure Stiles would have got through it without Scott. He knew they were both blessed in that regard, to have two people who fiercely loved them. It was almost like having a whole family again.

The relief he'd felt when Scott had nodded to say this visage before him, bashfully peering round the corner of his office door, was indeed his son, was total. Even the subsequent admission that the actual issue wasn't over couldn't overshadow that. The only part of this he really cared about was over and he revelled in it.

But then Allison had died, Aiden had died and it didn't matter that it wasn't Stiles' fault, that a multitude of people had told him so. John could see the guilt weighing down on his son when he thought no-one was watching. The slump of his shoulders and the slow way he walked, silently screaming that he didn’t think he deserved to still be standing.

“It’s okay, we’re remodelling obviously and the contractors are just being…”

Stiles’ sharp intake of breathe, made John look up and shut up. 

As he realised what he had said and the implications of it, he mentally kicked himself for putting his foot in his mouth so quickly. They’d barely got the conversation off the ground and he’d messed it up already. If Stiles shut down again now, it would be entirely his fault.

“Stiles…”

Stiles’ gaze flicked up to him and back down so quickly that if he hadn’t already been looking at his son he would have missed it.

Stiles lifted his mug to his lips, his hand shaking. A small amount of coffee dripped onto the table. Stiles saw it, put his mug down and stood all in one motion, going to the sink.

“It’s okay, Stiles, you don’t need to…”

“It’s a mess, it needs cleaning up.” Stiles replied, coming back to the table and wiping it down with a damp cloth.

John wasn’t so obtuse that he didn’t realise what Stiles was doing. It was a tactic which they’d employed in the past (though they hadn’t done it for several years) where they’d tangentially speak about a subject and resolve things that way.

“A mess that was an accident.”

Stiles looked at him then, sharply and with a look of disbelief on his face.

John amended his statement. “A mess that wasn’t your fault.”

“I was holding the coffee cup.”

“Lots of people have coffee cups.”

“Mine was too full though.”

“You couldn’t have known that when you took a drink.”

“I should have been more aware of it than I was.”

“You aren’t responsible for gravity.”

“But I knew that gravity existed.”

John sighed. He didn’t know how to get through to his son about this and the metaphor seemed to have exhausted itself.

“Stiles.”

His son looked him straight in the eye then, something he wasn’t expecting. He didn’t say anything though, so John continued.

“Stiles.” He stumbled, his words jumbling in his head.

“Stiles.” He repeated for a third time. “Do you really think this is your fault?”

His son stopped wiping the table, setting the cloth to the side and sitting back down.

“I don’t think gravity is; but the coffee…oh, fuck it! Sorry Dad, I mean. Look, no. At least…”

Stiles raked his hands through his hair then left them resting on his head.

“…no, I don’t think it’s my fault it happened.” He said carefully.

John opened his mouth to say something but Stiles cut him off.

“But I do think it’s my fault it happened.”

“You’ve lost me kiddo.”

Stiles raked his hands through his hair again, then lowered them to his cup and took a drink, not spilling it this time. 

So much time went past that John thought Stiles wasn’t going to explain himself. He was going to try to start the conversation again when Stiles took a deep breath and started to speak.

“Look. It chose me because I was weak, because it obviously saw a crack in my sanity that it could exploit.”

John opened his mouth.

“No, Dad, just let me finish this.”

John nodded.

“So I don’t think that part was necessarily my fault, although I could have been a bit more open I suppose about my anxiety over you nearly dying.”

“Oh, Stiles…”

His son ignored him.

“But I knew that I was starting to miss time, I knew that something was going on and I didn’t do anything about it. Then when I had that MRI, I…it did…I think it _used_ my anxiety to find that chink in my armour and take over. And that would have been it, except Deaton used that lichen and then I was myself again, it wasn’t even whispering to me. I was free. Which was great but we all knew that was a temporary fix. And then Malia and I were doing research in Eichen House on the No…on the thing.”

John nearly laughed; because of _course_ Stiles was doing research in the mental institution they’d put him in. That was so desperately _Stiles_.

“and then. Then, Dad, I messed up. I messed up so badly.” 

Stiles’ eyes filled with tears and John wanted to go to him but didn’t want to wreck the moment either. In the end, he just reached across the table and laid his hand palm up. If Stiles wanted him, he could touch him, if not, it didn’t matter. 

“It was my _choice_ to let it in the second time. I chose to let it in rather than let it kill Malia.”

John was the one who did a sharp intake of breath then. He hadn’t known _that_ part of the story.

“Exactly, I put one life of a girl I barely knew over countless lives, including yours.”

Stiles had obviously taken the breath to mean he was disappointed in him. That hadn’t been what he’d thought at all, he had just been surprised. The fact that Stiles thought saving the life of someone right in front of him made him anything but brave, especially as he had no idea what that would do in the long run, made his heart physically ache.

“Stiles…”

“Dad, would you shut up, this is hard enough as it is.”

“Okay, Son.”

“Er…right. So…so I let it in. It was my fault. I should have fought harder to expel it, or killed myself, or something.”

John nearly broke his silence at that; but he didn’t want to stop Stiles, worried that he’d never get this chance again. The fact that Stiles thought his only options were dying or fighting the thing alone spoke volumes as to Stiles’ character. He’d always been self-sacrificing, always feeling things very deeply. He never wanted to hurt anyone else with his words or actions, often to the detriment of his own health or sanity. The fact that he wanted to fight the thing on his own or die trying was noble; but unnecessary. Sometimes John thought Stiles had no idea how loved he was.

Even when Claudia had died, with Stiles on his own in the hospital room, he had tried to shield John from the pain. Telling him in his tiny voice that she had gone quietly, that she was pretty and that she had spoken of him. When he’d tried to comfort his son, Stiles had cried; but had kept repeating that he was okay and asking him if _he_ would be alright. The memory nearly threatened to engulf him and he almost missed it when Stiles spoke again.

“But then it was inside me and I didn’t have to fight it anymore; and I kind of didn’t at the beginning. I...” Stiles paused. “Just for a minute I stopped fighting because I was so tired, you know? So fed up with trying to hold on…and I don’t know if that meant it got stronger, if it was my fault how much chaos happened, if I made it worse than it was.”

John didn’t know what to make of this. He couldn’t imagine the amount of effort it could have taken to even fight it off a little bit, let alone the strength Stiles had shown fighting this thing off for months. He wasn’t sure he’d have lasted half that time; but then he wasn’t Stiles.

“And then we were at the loft…and Oh God, I was screaming…because you just, you just walked in. You didn't even have your gun out, you were going to try to take me alive…and you were on your own and I thought it was going to kill you. I thought it was going to snap your neck with my own hands and…” 

The tears were falling unchecked now and John didn’t care if this was all the admission he got, didn’t care if his movement would shut Stiles down again. This Stiles, in this moment, needed him; so he reached across and pried the hand which wasn’t holding the cup from the death grip it had on the table. Holding it in his, he squeezed slightly, letting Stiles know he was here, that he would always be here. Whatever he was about to say, whatever he did, whatever he _would_ do.

“It was laughing, Dad. Even as it was playing with you. It was laughing and I was screaming and it was all just playing out like it wanted. It was feeding. It was feeding on my pain, feeding on your pain. It knew that it would get the most from you, so it lured you there. I tried to…to get it to stop; but I couldn’t Dad, I wasn’t strong enough, I couldn’t. I should have tried harder…”

“Stiles…”

“So anyway, I suppose you know the rest…probably needed to know the rest, from Scott or something for the police reports. How did you explain Allison and Aiden? I think Scott mentioned stabbings or something? I suppose that was sensible, have the simplest lie, less likely to get caught out on the truth. Though that’s kind of a bit odd when you think we haven’t had a fatal stabbing in Beacon Hills since 1893, it was actually quite an interesting story, you see there was…”

“Stiles.” John said, not unkindly but forcefully. He accompanied his word with a squeeze of his hand.

“What?”

“You must know I don’t blame you. Nobody does.”

“How could they not?” Stiles asked, actually making eye contact for the first time in a while. “Allison’s dead, Dad.”

“And Scott knows that’s not your fault.”

“He’s not even shouted at me! He just said it was ‘okay’. But it’s not okay! Nothing’s going to be okay! How can he say it’s okay? How can anything ever be okay again?”

The last question was said very quietly and John could feel Stiles shrinking back inside himself again. He made a snap decision and got up, moved round the small table and pulled Stiles to his feet, hugging him tightly.

Stiles flailed a bit and even tried to push away to begin with; but then wrapped him in a bruising hug that nearly took his breath away. He cradled Stiles’ head in his hands (noting that Stiles was almost too tall now for this to work) and just held him, letting Stiles cry himself dry. Not letting go until Stiles was merely sniffing.

He pulled away long enough to reach for a kitchen towel and passed it to Stiles, who wiped his eyes and then seemed to collapse back into his chair.

John stayed standing for a moment but eventually sat too, vaguely picking his mug up and swirling the now cold contents.

“I just…” Stiles started weakly.

John looked up.

“Part of me wants to shut myself away and never talk to anyone ever again.”

John opened his mouth to speak but Stiles waved him off.

“And then the other part of me is so _scared_ of being alone, so scared of being shut up in my own head again.”

There it was. The reason all the doors were open. John kicked himself for not realising it sooner. It was so obvious, once you thought about it. Why would someone who had been possessed ever want to be shut in ever again?

“You can’t let it beat you, Stiles.”

When Stiles didn’t say anything, John continued.

“It’s gone. We won. You can’t let it keep shutting you in. It’s not got that power over you anymore.”

Stiles nodded.

“Thanks for the coffee, Dad.”

John watched as Stiles stood, manoeuvring around the small kitchen and out into the living room. He heard the stairs creak and Stiles go into his room, heard music start to play, though he couldn’t recognise the band.

He thought they’d had a breakthrough; but he also knew that it wasn’t going to be as easy as one conversation. He wondered if there was any counsellor in the world he could send his son to who could deal with this. A counsellor for Supernatural issues, was there even such a thing? Maybe he could talk to Deaton about it. He didn’t like the guy; but he couldn’t fault the help he’d given the kids over the years. 

If Stiles changed his story slightly (or at least fudged the details), a rape counsellor might do well too; might teach him that although he’d lost his power, he _could_ get it back. 

John had done some work with that arm of the law enforcement office, not that they had many attacks of that nature in Beacon Hills; but they’d all had to go on a training course. Something about being able to recognise the signs and help people. He had learnt that it wasn’t about dismissing what had happened; because what happened was awful and should not be wallpapered over; but working within the _parameters_ of what happened, learning that it wasn’t an either or situation. It wasn’t pre and post, it was an event along the line of your life. That sort of radical acceptance was incredibly hard to deal with; but when the victim could, it worked wonders. 

The Sheriff wasn’t sure he really wanted to go down that route though. If Stiles hadn’t made that connection he wasn’t sure he wanted to sow that seed in him. All he knew was that somewhere along the line, Stiles needed to speak to someone. He didn’t mind if it was him, as long as Stiles actually spoke to him; but it was like pulling teeth at the best of times – and he was still fairly new to this.

Going behind Stiles’ back to talk with Scott seemed deceptive; but also might be the best thing to do. Then again, Scott had a lot going on at the moment. Maybe Melissa would have some insight.

John raked his hands through his hair, in a mirror of Stiles’ nervous fidgeting earlier. He chuckled to himself, so very proud that his son had taken after him; but more proud still that he had surpassed him. He was a better man than he.

~~~

So he still checked on his son, convincing himself that he was physically still there; still _actually_ his son. A son that was still safe; still whole; still sane; and still alive. 

If he had to keep vigil to prove to himself that he was a good father too, that was a price he was willing to pay. Maybe watching Stiles’ healing would heal himself as well. 

He could only hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, damnit people! I made myself cry again.


End file.
